The Stainless Steel Rat Goes to Hell

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I poured a good measure of whiskey over the ice, scowled at it—then added a splash more. But, as I lifted the glass and drank it with glugging pleasure, my raised eyes drifted across the clock that was set into the wall above the bar. It was just ten in the morning.

"My, my, Jim, you are hitting the sauce a little earlier each day," I growled wordlessly. So what? It was my liver wasn't it? I gurgled the glass empty just as the house computer spoke to me in rich, educated—and possibly sneering?—tones.

"Someone is approaching the front door, Sire."

"Great. Perhaps it is the booze shop delivery?" Venom dripped from my voice; but all Computers are immune to sarcasm.

"Indeed not, Sire, for Garry's Grog and Groceries delivers by freight tube. I identify the person approaching as Rowena Vinicultura. She has stopped her popcar on the front lawn and is emerging from it."

My morale plummeted as the name slithered across my eardrums. Of all the beautiful bores on Lussuoso, Rowena was possibly the most beautiful—and certainly the most boring. I had to flee—or commit suicide—before she came in. I was already heading for the back of the house, to possibly drown myself in the swimming pool, when the housebot's computer voice stopped me in my tracks.

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